Whispers
by RNandSniper
Summary: With one man down, and her other partner missing, Gaby does what she needs to. With their team so fragile and new, will they have what it takes to stick together in face of adversity.
1. Take Care of Business

_Intentionally Misfiled Reports #2_

 _21 Days Later, New York Ciy_

It was just a whisper, a hint of a rumour. But pulling on that thread, hoping for the whole mess to unravel was exponentially more than they had to work with since he disappeared. And hope was all they could cling to anymore, and cling to each other. Spending three weeks talking to contacts, informants, and the underpinnings of society, sometimes in very high places had brokered no news. It was as if he had simply disappeared, defying any logic or law of nature. Because he was a force of nature, and the top agent of any espionage outfit did not disappear quietly into the night.

Waverly had voiced quietly that maybe he wanted an out, and took it. Gaby had slapped her commander. Waverly nodded as if it was his due, and got back to looking for his missing man. She no longer wept when considering the missing man's fate. Too many tears had fallen already. He never would have walked away, no matter the pressure of his home agency and displeasure from the top, not with his partner still in the hospital, and promise of a swift return with fresh clothes for the both of them fresh from his lips. He walked out of the hospital and vanished like a genie from a tale, back into a bottle, hidden away.

The circumstances defied any reasonable explanation. Both of U.N.C.L.E.'s cases had been neatly wrapped up. The Istanbul terrorist cell had been apprehended, or unmistakably killed. Gaby's partners may have diverse skill sets, but neither were hesitant to dispense justice when the stakes were high, or in defence of each other. It gave her pause at times, how coldly Solo worked, and with the dark precision that Kuryakin operated. But these two men had already proved their devotion to her. This time she meant to demonstrate to all of the world if she had to, what it meant hurt her boys.

Family was now a metaphor to Gaby. But she did not consider it an abstract, undefinable concept. She held fond memories of her childhood with her foster family, initially taking her in for the stipend during war times, well compensated for raising of the daughter of a well-respected scientist. She had bonded with the man who taught her the family business, having no sons. And she learned well and quickly enough to impress her beloved papa, tinkering, inventing, and improving upon what she touched. Gaby had given up on dreams of her own father returning, knowing that he had forfeited any paternal rights the moment he was told by the government to put his career above his daughter. Uncle Rudy was an enigma to her. Solo had told her Rudy was dead. Something in his eyes stopped her from asking Solo deeper questions. Rudy had been heavily embedded within a criminal organization, and was guilty. At first Gaby had believed Solo to be protecting her, but a genuine expression of some buried emotion on a normally well composed artificial face warned her away. For now, given a chance and the right moment, she would discover what had locked up Napoleon's silver tongue.

Gaby's family, her boys, now was what drove her to work through her broadening skills, and test her courage. She knew if either of them ever discovered the situations she had orchestrated to look for the missing team member, they would applaud, and then arrange for her to spend the rest of her career behind a desk, if only to protect her from their influence. She gave her partner in hospital only the highlights. He gave her some feedback, and different ideas. Otherwise she spent the morning looking through her partners' meticulous notes, practicing the nuances of her English, and working closely with Waverly to decipher the half Cyrillic, half English codes. The afternoons and evenings were spent pounding the pavement when she had some theory to work through, or nursing the man who lay frustrated in hospital, waiting for his turn to find their lost man.

Gaby had until today, felt just as tied down and helpless as her remaining partner. Waverly had done everything he could have, and was sweating with absence of any intel. All three of his agents had confidential information stored in their heads, which given the opportunity could damage the new organization. But the two men had years of codes and phrases, personnel files, and safe house's tucked away, and that information in the wrong hands could rip those annoying three letter organizations in half, along with many of its competitors. The top agent was privy to much, and had likely discovered much more.

Waverly stood firmly that until there was evidence that the man had talked, or his fate was known, he was not to be burned. The obstinate and self-righteous former handler almost done it, out of fear. Gaby had asked what that meant. She had gone still at the answer. Kill on sight, regardless of the agent's disposition, and ruthless removal of comprisable assets- property and people.

So now that Gaby had some gossamer strand to follow, she pursued it with single-minded determination. Three weeks later, and her partner stood unsteadily at her side, his eyes blown with pain medication. He canted dangerously on his own, and then affected a lean on the wall of the alley as they watched the only entrance to a small building lining New York's impressive harbour. Anticipation and wariness wrapped them both. A street urchin said he'd seen some one brought in who was idyllic of the description she had painted of her missing comrade. But that was a week ago, and the urchin had not kept watch. Anything could have happened between then and now, if it was indeed her man that was brought in there, and not some drunk dock worker needing an out of the way spot to recuperate away from the foreman, or any other number of explanations that could steal this away from her.

Oddly the urchin had come to her looking for some reward, because word was passing on the street that beautiful woman was ripping apart the seams to look for her beau. She rolled her eyes at the irony, having played a few roles so far with her companions, she could play it again if it meant getting him back. So the warm presence at her back protected her with the same determination to keep her safe, as she walked willingly into what may have been a trap. Because he wanted his partner back just as much as she did, and even in his condition, he could cover her in this simple set up.

Istanbul had been hard on him. Perhaps he would not have been so badly injured if he had been in perfect health at the start of the mission, but the hungover presence of their first escapade together had affected everyone. Illya's and Napoleon's trust issues and teamwork required much improvement, but both men were evolving. Gaby had thought the time that the men needed to recover would allow the three of them to bond better, and develop a sense of home in New York. She had vainly wished this interlude would have been used to train her with some of the more practical sides of spy craft, but she had instead developed her own contacts and her street smarts as Napoleon would have called it.

So when Gabby walked across the dock under the cover of night, kitted up in tactical clothes, and mask over her face, no one could see her expression when she used Illya's tool to pick her first lock. No one saw her face half as cold as Napoleon's, or her fingers on the grip of the gun half as sure as Illya's. And no one saw the look of dread when she indeed found her errant partner hanging from the ceiling.

He looked dead, his lips cyanotic, face grey, and dark shadows under his eyes. His arms were pulled over his head to two separate chains and tied apart so that he created a Y shape with his arms and heavy body. His lower half dipped into the open trap door into the ocean below. His knees to feet dangled submerged into the ocean. The roll of the waves rocked him slightly so he was never still, but still Gabby could see no intentional movement, and certainly no reaction to the door of his prison opening. He swayed, his head rolling limply on his shoulders. Gabby could hear the waves breaking.

Gabby shook herself, she had been transfixed with the sight of him, but a quick sweep of the room revealed no guards, no others waiting to take her on. She was never accused of being meek, but the sight now burned into her memory gave her some understanding of Illya's moods. Nothing would have pleased her more than one of the men involved being present. But, having found him, her Illya, she hated to leave him here for even a moment. Necessity made her turn and run back out on the dock, her steps now thudding deeply in her ears, as her own heart rate soared.

The black clad men stepped out toward her, limping as ably as he could, his gun raised and swinging back and forth with military precision. "All's clear."

Gaby ripped her balaclava up and holstered her gun. "He's in there." But her tone told her partner everything.

She turned quickly back into the room and felt a strong, almost painfully so grip on her shoulder as she led Solo in and up to where Illya was still suspended from the rafters. Deep wounds were evident where the rope dug in, and oddly enough, where the rope also hung taunt from his ankles.

Solo made a soft choked noise. She felt herself start to tremble. She reached up to Illya's cold neck, hidden by the musculature of his arms.

"Christ on the cross." And that was the most religious thing she had heard that man ever say. "Asphyxiation."

Gaby frowned not sure what she felt, was it her own heart rate that thrummed against her fingers, or was it a hallucination, or was it his pulse. And she screamed when those arm muscles contracted and Illya pulled his feet of out of the water, got his shoulders up to level of his elbows, and took a stubbornly deep breath.

MFU

* * *

I hope my efforts to be purposefully vague as to who was in the hospital and who was missing weren't too confusing, but rest assured, its hurt and comfort for everyone. This vaguely follows the events I set forth in other fic Weakness is no Shame Among Partners, but that was just me amping up the hurt comfort in the movie.

I would really appreciate feedback on this as well.


	2. One

_21 Days Later, New York City_

Napoleon Solo stepped into the doorway of the derelict warehouse, an unfamiliar feeling washing over him. Anguish flared up. The body of the man who had saved his life now too many times hung from the rafters of a shack where labourers had once processed fish. Loss was not unfamiliar. Napoleon's father had drank himself to death after the first war, penniless, a memory muted by the fading clarity of childhood. The emptiness he felt after he chose to enlist after Pearl Harbour and left his mother, aunts, and girlfriend. Napoleon's immediate loss of his elaborately free lifestyle when he was so quietly caught and recruited to the CIA. But the sudden absence of a man he had only worked twice with struck him with the same importance. Napoleon felt cheated, and the more practical side of him felt his newfound place with the new agency disappear. Gaby, he doubted would want to continue, with the obvious resolution to their partner's career. Death was often the price of admission into the world of counterterrorism, hostile government takedowns, and extrajudicial killings.

Napoleon supposed his initial investment in coldly saving the Russian from drowning had more than multiplied on returns. But here Solo's own effort felt flat in the face of the swinging figure before him. The Red Peril was a loyal teammate, for all their three attempts to murder one another. East Berlin, the end of the mission in Italy, and that almost fatally confusing ploy in Istanbul- entirely Illya's fault. But the times that Illya had put aside his country's and agency's ideals outweighed their negative encounters. The horrifying torture for nothing more than a man's amusement as method of execution, the humiliation of being beaten then nearly shot with his own gun, being pulled up off the edge of the Galta Tower, and then carried over Kuryakin's shoulder after being shot multiple times while covering Gaby's own escape all flashed before his eyes. Solo's own failure swung before him. It just did not rationalize how Solo could have failed to prevent this, the disappearance, torture and death of a man over three weeks on American soil. Kuryakin was not allowed to retire with a better record than he, not in a world that made any sort of sense.

Gabby approached the figure of the man dirty, worn, and so obviously abused. Solo's heart gave another wrench. She moved deliberately as always, but gracefully, even with her form concealed by the tactical gear she wore. Solo had never seen Illya even kiss her, for all of the adoring eyes the Red Peril made, or the way he shielded her in and after danger. Gaby was no waif, as she had proved, but she looked desirably delicate under the Russian's gaze. While no smart East German girl was involved with a Russian, Gaby had agreed to become a British spy, so obviously she had some character flaw.

The Peril's and the Chop Shop Girl's relationship had been so new, unique and fragile. Illya obviously desired her and cared for her, while even as he was so hesitant to pursue his feelings, never having given it the chance they deserved. Gaby was playful engaged, but getting tired of the unresolved tension between the two of them. But they spent the time so well together, if not easily in each other's company. Solo noted that Gaby taunted the Russian and pushed him in way that only poked fun at the man's faults, where Illya needed to grow and learn. She petulantly pointed to where Illya failed to be socially correct or relational with her and Solo, or when Illya's stiff reactional nature endangered his cover. She was never harsh about his past, if she even indeed knew the sordid tale of his father, and following neglectful and shameful activities of his mother. She pointed out his flaws with such decisiveness, and not a small bit of violence. Solo believed the Russian found it to be endearing. Solo believed also the Russian to be a closet masochist.

So Napoleon Solo watched as Gaby here in the warehouse she strained up to reach for the slack figure. Napoleon gambled she'd slap Illya, and command him back to life. And Illya in that fairy-tale would have awoken and answered annoyed with some unintended innuendo.

Instead she reached up her hand the Russian's carotid. Napoleon turned away, not willing to watch her face flutter through the denial, doubt, and heartbreak. So he missed the confusion and wonder on her face, but heard a splash of water out of place in that small room. He raised his gun and moved to assess the threat, but all the permutations in his head failed to predict an impossible value. The Russian's body seized upwards, and both spies inhaled deeply together, drawing a breath of life.

Solo rocked back on his heel and felt for his combat knife at the sudden movement of Kuryakin. It sprang into Solo's hand, as he fell to his knees reaching down for the rope tying his partner's ankles together. Testing the pull of the rope, obviously weighted, took almost as much strength as Napoleon had. Solo felt another moment of anger and self-pity at his current limitations. His empty hospital bed, where he was still listed as a patient, grew colder. The knife bit through the coarse bindings and fell quickly into the sea beneath their feet.

Illya flopped comically at the sudden change, and went limp again. Gaby's shrill wordless shout still echoed in his ears, even as his eyes began searching the interior of the room. "We need to cut the ropes, now." Her accent was thickened, and she gestured for the Bowie. Solo locked onto what he needed. A wooden palate, wider on one surface than the other, its purpose clear. Solo pushed his partner's legs on to the solid ground, and tried to bear the weight across his uninjured shoulder.

"Covered the fish trap first, can't have him or us falling through. There across from the door." His voice was becoming strained as well. He felt blood trickle down his hip again.

Gaby moved with a decisive edge to his directions making Napoleon approve that at least she could coordinate in action with him seamlessly. She lifted the wooden cover, and slammed it into place as Napoleon felt his strength let go. He fell hard, and Kuryakin's swinging heels' hit hard against his spine. Gaby wasted no time and stretched up, putting a foot on Napoleon's back to saw against Illya's bonds. Illya's arms twitched again, as he tried one last time to lever himself up to take a breath. Napoleon pushed himself to his hands and knees. Gaby was thrust upward and remarkably kept her balance. She made efficient use of the additional height. Illya's own efforts were shakier, were slower, and just as he failed to pick himself up enough to draw air, his left wrist snapped down, the back of his hand oddly rotated to his side. A quick collective breath echoed through the room.

Gaby had the next bond cut even faster, the increase tension making it easier to slide the blade through the fibres. Napoleon could do nothing as both Gaby and Illya fell to the floor. She grabbed the Russian's head and pulled it towards her as they went down. They fell awkwardly, away from Solo, and Gaby hit first, half on her side, as Illya's mass thumped down hollowly beside them.

Gaby lay winded, and for a moment Napoleon was sure she'd knocked herself out. But she stirred and curled over the Russian pulling his head tighter to her, and she stroked his face. Illya had not yet drawn another breath. "Gaby, open his airway." She pushed the Russian's chin up. After a moment, the Russian's chest started bellowing up and down, starved and hungry. He arms still twitched spasmodically, but his open eyes appeared to see nothing in the room. Napoleon crawled closer, not feeling splinters from the roughhewn floor bite into his hands.

"Illya?" Gaby crooned, "Illya, Cowboy and I are here. We're here." Napoleon felt a knot ease in his chest. Illya continued to breathe, the bluish color in his lips improving dramatically.

"Come on Peril, no sleeping on the job." Napoleon, satisfied that the first two principles of medical aid were satisfied, ran his gaze along his partner's body. The bluish and swollen nature of Illya's hands made Napoleon wince, but he also noted the deep rope burned on Illya's palms and pads' of his fingers, rubbed raw and still sluggishly bleeding in places. The man had gripped the rope for a while to draw himself up in order to breath, until he lost the strength to do that. Ordinarily a death by that kind of suffocation took less than an hour, but Illya had held out long of enough for his tormentor's to become impatient and weight his feet. It had been a death sentence, but one where a desperate man had opportunity change his mind and surrender to his tormentors. Illya had obviously refused to give up, and the group that had taken Illya left him to his fate.

All of the man's fingernails and toe nails were missing and had already begun to heal. The men who had taken the Russian were not professionals. Anyone trained to extract information had to make pain last, and make it repeatable. A nail could only be ripped out once. Bamboo shoots or other files under the finger nails could be repeated twice daily for equal measure in pain until the nail bed became to damaged and it fell off spontaneously. Illya's face was covered with three weeks of a thick beard, but bruising was unmistakeable, and blood had pooled under both his eyes from facial trauma - his nose had been likely broken. Astonishingly it looked in place, which Napoleon surmised that at least at some point Illya's hands had been free, or bound in front of him. But the Russian had not escaped with that advantage.

The man was a far superior fighter, a master of judo, and proficient in several other forms. Napoleon released the ropes from around Illya's wrists and ankles and quickly saw why. While both feet were beaten black, the left ankle moved oddly, against the nature of the joint. The same ragged pant leg was stained dark and tacky, the knee was swollen badly, a small hole in fabric above. The skin that had been in the ocean was puffy, pale and brittle looking, openly bleeding where it had scraped the floor. Napoleon split the pant leg all the way up to Illya's groin, and closed his eyes. A pockmark on Illya's upper thigh glared an angry red and pestilent, with dark red lines running up the man's leg. And the exposed smell made his eyes water. Napoleon retched.

Gaby took the knife away from Napoleon then. "Stop, we must get help. Grab your radio and signal Waverly. They must bring an ambulance." Napoleon handed it to her, still swallowing his mouth full of saliva. The lack of a purposeful reaction from Illya was becoming entirely too concerning. The Russian's penetrating gaze, always watchful, and guarding was flatly absent. Those eyes rolled unfocused around with only the movement of his head.

Gaby repeated the location twice, and swore viciously in German for the medics Waverly was sending to hurry. Illya remained limply draped across her. She used both her hands, one on his forehead, the other on his chin, and maintained his airway, even as the large man's muscles spasmmed, and jerked. Napoleon pulled himself under control. "This was pointless. If he was still able to give information, they never would have left him alone, and if he wasn't able to talk, he'd be dead." The look Gaby gave him, made him pause and consider how he sounded. It was an unusual moment of reflection.

"We'll ask him later why, but for now, go signal down the driver. Please." And with that Napoleon pushed himself to his feet, his vision nearly whiting out at the change in height. Solo was reminded of everything that had happened three and half weeks ago until now.

"Cowboy?" Gaby, called to him, and he forced himself to move. He'd enjoyed her company too exclusively for too long. Illya could have his turn.

Napoleon's hip burned painfully, but he did not have long to wait before sirens came racing up to meet him. Solo's eyes did not miss two figures turn and run from four blocks away back between buildings at the commotion. Their profiles burned into his memory.

Another stab at his pride was that he could not hunt the men down and bring them to account. Their reaction to the sudden appearance of emergency vehicles and the proximity to the small fishing warehouse was too coincidental. And a smart spy, which Solo was, understood there were no coincidences in nature, only patterns and mistakes.

Illya was loaded onto a stretcher. The men that had arrived wasted no time, and had the Russian whisked into back faster than Solo thought possible for the men to handle someone of Illya's size. Gaby went to Napoleon then, and put an arm around him. She helped them both up into the back. The three of them were together for the first time in three weeks. Napoleon felt her stiffen when he tightened his arm. She shook her head at him negatively, her brown curls bobbing with movement of the vehicle. Gaby reached to stroke the Russian's face, and Napoleon returned the Russian's hand to the stretcher where it had fallen off with the rough ride. Napoleon did not let go.

MFU.

 _21 Days Later, New York City_

Illya hung in a constructed world small and shadowy. He had built up the room in his mind, away from the rest of his consciousness, just as his trainer instructed him if he was ever in a situation that he could not escape, or commit suicide. It had been a difficult mental exercise to master. There he could escape any input, and forget everything. He could not remember why he was here, only that it was safe for his mind, and he let go. Only Illya was here, no one else intruded, no memories of places he'd been, or things he'd seen. It was empty of anything to influence him. He sat alone, unoccupied. It would have been boring except for the growing feeling that it was all closing around him. The empty features of the room where he sat became darker and his perception became fuzzy, growing in longer intervals before it cleared. The only thing he allowed to escape his room, not taught by his trainer's, was an urge to survive. It made no sense. The last memories he had cast out had spoken of nothing but loneliness.

But to Illya the impulse to endure smelled like American whisky, and sounded like the whisper of a British German accent. And he held onto that, even when that fuzzy disconnected feeling did not recede, and it all stayed dark.

Illya's persistence was rewarded when the room came back brighter. A vague perception of something undefinable rattled the outside of the safe house his mind created. Illya waited, because it was not the first time it had happened, that everything had stopped and started back up with a flurry of action. The last time he had been tempted to let down his walls. He had walled up again away from whatever had happened, but he irrecoverably understood that nothing good came of leaving this headspace.

It continued, mercilessly, until Illya thought that it must be his end. To be finished off, because nothing before had been close to this. If it was his end, Illya thought rebelliously, he wanted to face it, to show that no one took advantage of him, that he did not lose without effort. So against all of the conditioning Illya pushed away the walls and let the world come back to him.

Soft brown eyes appeared in front of him, liquid and searching, pupils dilating after focusing on his. Words fell upon his ear, a jumbled mess of Germanic, Latin and French undertones. He only heard his name. But the voice sounded like the whisper he used to drive himself to survive. He lay there and stared up at her. He felt something tighten around his hand. Pins and needles rose up from that familiar contact and walls entirely disappeared to have pain replace it, and it washed over him ripping him away from her and that strong grip. And he went under.

MFU

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Thank you everyone for the generous reviews and kudos. Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. Next one maybe won't be so dark. Maybe...

Some people seemed to like my attempt to interject suspense into the first chapter, and for those who thought it dragged on long enough, call it a writing exercise. I appreciate the feedback and will reflect on how to improve it for feasibility of rereading. I also apologize for a few typos that I caught after posting.

I appreciate anyone who is still reading, and there's much more to come.

~S


	3. Cry to Me

_5 Days Before, Istanbul_

Illya woke in stages. It was loud, he could hear commotion and shouting. He tried to force himself to move, but he felt frozen in place. All he could smell was the salty tang of blood, his he thought. As he tried to breathe in deeply, all he accomplished was choking himself on it. It rolled thickly down his throat, and the coughing fit, finally forced him into action. He twisted to his side and spat. His surrounding revolved violently around him. A horrible nausea pushed his stomach, and he fought not to be ill. He could pick out Gaby's voice now, and felt a small hand push him down. It made him push harder.

He couldn't remember how he ended up flat on his back, and this concerned him deeply. The last few minutes, maybe longer were absent. Their mission in Istanbul was reaching a turning point with the surveillance and acting finally paying off. The three spies from U.N.C.L.E. had gotten a meeting to purchase the new superweapon. Time seemed to move so slowly, and then jump forward. Gaby was no longer beside him. He could not identify anything else around him. He felt lost. The light burned brightly against his closed lids, and the force against his eyes was more than he could bear. But Gaby was gone from his side…. and Solo. What had happened with Solo.

Illya tried to muster his resolve. He rolled to his stomach and let the world swim around him for a longer moment than he preferred. But after that pause, he forced himself to his hands and knees, and heard more of his blood splatter beneath him.

The shouting grew in fervour and pitch and worst of all was Gaby's voice in the mix. Hands gripped him again, and he pushed them off. He forced his eyes open to see Solo again, a worried light in his eyes. "Illya, next time leave the acting to me." Something clicked in Illya's mind and he realized that he lay on a beach in Istanbul.

Solo's flowered shirt that Illya had actually chuckled at that morning was garishly stained red, provided by both of them. Solo then winced and whispered to Illya, "They're watching us again. Remember you started this." And Solo pulled him into an embrace, and his right fist caught him below the ribs into his left kidney. Illya's vision went white again.

Next thing he realized, there was Gaby drawing back and hammering Solo across the face with her open hand. The man staggered. "You're finished! What we had, its over!" She stomped off, towards the downed Russian. Illya gave a small smile that hurt his face. Solo better not have cracked his jaw. Drinking his meals for month did not appeal to him. Solo would likely joke that having his jaw wired would only improve the conversation between the two of them.

Solo disappeared as Gaby settled next to Illya on the sand worrying over him, the perfect picture of a frantic lover. Illya just marveled at the shot Cowboy had gotten in on his defense. The Cowboy deserved to get a good blow in once every once in a while, if only to encourage improvement. They would have to spar together after the mission was over. It would be good practice.

Gaby produced real enough tears that he wondered just how pathetic he looked and made a move to get up. "Illya, it's okay. They believed it. They're leaving. The locals are staring at us very judgmentally though."

Illya craned his neck around, and saw the retreating figures disappear into vehicle parked on the edge of the sand. "All gone? No one should see leave together." He winced. The pain was making his accent stronger, he had been trying to cover it. While he could articulate more carefully in English, he always had needed to plan out his argument. Thinking ahead and working out strategy was something that came easily, languages did not. He was well aware of how thick his accent was, and it marked him out as a stupid brute. When he wanted to play that type, it was just an accessory detail, but in situations where he was to play an intellectual it was a detriment to his maintaining a cover.

That was one of the many reasons Illya despised the subterfuge element of espionage. One of the other chief faults was the one that had landed him in a lump now. Although the lying and scheming almost felt worth it to have Gaby so close after spending so much time apart. Her acting like he was a nameless employee, and he keeping a professional and cool distance burdened him, and was making him soft. The niggling feeling of doubt made him hope that it was, in fact only pretend.

Gaby had been Solo's happily married spouse this time. Apparently Waverly believed the Russian required more practice holding his temper. Solo had traitorously agreed that operation needed a smooth hand since it was in reasonably unstable area. Illya admitted that Solo was better at spreading fabrications, in a Russian slur. Illya may have also called him a degenerate.

Waverly then asked him how what alternative Kuryakin had to approach the mission where the objective was to pose as buyers for new poison capable of being aerosolized over small cities, but was unstable and broke down after a few days to harmless substrates. Illya took a moment and suggested that they ask for a demonstration on a controllable area, some small remote village, and catch and execute all but those willing to turn on the others. Waverly was quiet a moment, and nodded. Solo sat in stunned silence, and muttered something about the top of the KGB being worthy of the bad press they had in America. Illya reinforced that he would take his prisoners before the demonstration. Gaby looked at him as if he had been joking about the whole plan. She was going to need to lose that innocence soon to keep her sanity.

So according to Waverly's original instructions, the new power couple, Solo and Teller, wanted to get their hands on that new toy to wipe clean Solo's imaginary older brother's villa, in order to inherit the media empire himself. And in the process of assassinating his brother, the weapon would destroy those employees fanatically loyal to his brother, the mogul. Illya was just the bodyguard, but had some background as a chemist, brought along to keep the overly paranoid couple safe, and to verify the research.

But unfortunately Solo's quick fingers were not fast enough for one of the guard's sharp eyes as he tried to plant a transmitter on the leader of the team sent out to talk money and exchange the only produced sample. The counterfeit money looked real enough, but it too held trackers, and the ink would fade if exposed to air for more than two days, becoming plain paper. This prevented it from crashing the economy, because it was enough money to do exactly that. Napoleon had stared with wonder at it, until Illya had glared at him, and closed up the briefcase himself. That briefcase was currently handcuffed to Illya's wrist.

A copy developmental research in question was also present in order to prove the viability of the product, and that was the primary target of the meeting. No sane government or country bound by Geneva Convention wanted the poison to be reproduced, and unfortunately the lead scientist had become exposed at the end of development. So this new threat stopped here if the copies of the research was apprehended by U.N.C.L.E. and the only viable sample destroyed. The tracker that Napoleon had tried to plant in pocket of the lead negotiator hit the sand with a silent bounce after their target had stumbled in the moment Solo made his move. It looked inconspicuous, a lighter, but the guard had seen. Solo was about to be exposed, in the middle of an open area, no cover available for nearly a kilometer in any direction, aside from the ocean. So Illya, grabbed Gaby from Napoleon's side and viciously pushed past the overly observant guard before he could say anything. He suckered Solo in gut, pulling back his punch from a paralyzing blow.

Solo's eyes widened as he realized his mistake, "Whatever are you trying to do?" Solo tried to say it flatly, but the polished smarm was ruined by the hunched over wheeze.

"I am tired of working for criminal, I am tired of protecting arrogant ass, and tired of fucking his wife behind his back. I take that money myself, and I think work for your betters." Illya clocked Solo across the face with the briefcase before he could respond back. Illya hoped it would give Solo time to think of a plan, but a dangerous light lit in the American's eyes.

The constant tension between the men had been growing for the duration of their time spent in Istanbul. The edgy trust between the two men formed in battle, and then in secret when Napoleon had destroyed the evidence to protect the Russian was wearing thin. While it was obvious Solo had no true romantic feelings for Gaby, they had certainly played their part well in public, and in private when Illya had discovered a newly planted bug in their suite. Short of actually spending time behind closed doors, the two of them had been, as the American's say, hot and heavy. The Cowboy at first had the courtesy to look guilty when they were not being directly observed, but he had obviously started to enjoy himself. Illya was well aware of the part of Solo's psych evaluation that made a point of mentioning he was a serial womanizer, and Illya wondered how deeply Solo was believing his part. And far more importantly, how young Gaby was now feeling.

There had been no openings to speak privately with her since the start of the mission. His conflicted feelings for the beautiful East German girl ran away with his courage to act on his desire. She was only twenty five, while he was in his early thirties. The age difference was not much in most societies, but she should have better than scarred KGB agent for a lover or husband, who was not even sure what he wanted from her. His small heart had felt so warm when she kept the ring, and he had felt crushed when she left with a good bye kiss. She was the only one who had ever talked him down from the fury that clouded his mind. But a woman such as she should not be bound to someone as ill as him.

His few intimate relations had been women left in his rooms when he was much younger, and moldable. The KBG were trying to figure out his patterns, his triggers, and weaknesses. And after living with his mother, women were not one of them. Illya spent the better part of his middle years, trying to tune out the sound of the former socialite's attempts to stay popular with family friends in the small apartment they were banished to after his father's very public disgrace. And so he often just fell ill whenever the opportunity arose to be intimate. He knew there existed some sort of mark about an Oedipal complex in his file, but that travelling down that thought line was the fastest way for him to hurt something.

Nevermind a thoroughly analysed and full childish view of the removal of his father from his life, and his father's subsequesent disgrace and death was something he, a Kuryakin could fix if he pleased the communist leader's and was the perfect solider. His time in the KGB had only reinforced that teenage delusion, he was aware, but mentions of his father were a carefully molded hair trigger the KBG trainers implanted into his psyche. Waverly had pulled him privately aside once, and told him they were going to work on it, that he did not need a rabid dog, but balanced agent.

All of this flashed through his mind as he twitched, and began to lose a measure of control. Gaby's astonished face was still at the periphery of his mind and he focused on that to center himself, before continuing his façade to hopefully allow Gaby to complete Napoleon's intended task of bugging the negotiation team. She was smart, and had to see the reason Illya had picked a fight. Napoleon had mentioned Illya had a talent for the overly dramatic moments; the episode where Illya dismantled Gaby's car stuck out as a chief example. So Illya played to this and taunted Napoleon again in Russian. "You might have held her, but it was me she thought of, and she knows she's not just some empty conquest for your dick!" Whether or not their marks spoke Russian was unknown, but the sentiment behind the words and gestures was universal. His American partner clearly understood. A look of genuine hurt, replaced by actual rage covered the Cowboy's.

Illya thought to himself, his plan was unfolding perfectly, as a play fight would be obvious, before then wondering if he had maybe pushed the American too far. They both cared for Gaby, and perhaps Illya's assertions were also too based in fears, and struck his partner with an unfair assertions under sewn with a ring of truth. Illya was well aware how easy it was to give into a base nature. While Illya's sin was anger, Napoleon's was lust. Napoleon made a quick move, not unlike how Gaby bowled Illya over their first night in the hotel in Rome. Illya flowed around the American, but did not plan for the handful of sand and rock Solo thrust in Illya's eyes mid grapple.

Illya had always meant to go down in the fight. But he was unprepared for the vicious onslaught that the advantage his blindness afforded the American. He felt four punches land into his gut and face before the world blinked out.

So now Gaby was trying to pull Illya up, and he got shakily to his feet. His vision swam a bit. But when he blinked, it was Cowboy who stood remorsefully in front of him, reaching to steady him. "I think I better understand what goes through your head sometimes, Peril. How's it feel?" And that was more than an apology than Illya expected.

"Still attached, Cowboy."

"Touching, but shouldn't we be following that tracker boys. That lovely show aside, they'll be suspicious now. May have to be a little more direct this time, and hit them, not each other." Gaby strode off down beach, but did turn ensure they followed her. "And we will being having a talk boys, because that is the last time I stop you from killing each other." Illya managed to clear the fog in his mind on the walk; however, a lingering nausea made him sure that he had a concussion. For now his balance stayed intact and it would not affect the mission. All that was left was to find and collect their objectives, and the trio knew exactly where they had to go to ensure that they made a clean sweep for all the pieces of evidence, and perpetrators.

MFU

 _23 Days Later, New York City_

Solo rested against Gaby's shoulder, unconsciously sprawled against her as he most ungentlemanly took up most of the couch in Illya's elaborate hospital room. U.N.C.L.E. only paid for the best apparently to recover their agents after being tortured. Gaby had gotten the orderlies to push arm of the couch up to the head of the hospital bed, so she could sit next her ill partner. Both men breathed slowly and easily and Gaby used her free hand to push untamed dark hair curls away from Napoleon's eyes.

Solo had come into Illya's room an hour and half earlier, after spending his time getting the dressing to his hip changed, and his checkup completed. Gaby heard everything through the paper thin walls. This was the first time Napoleon had answered the doctor honestly, not trying to appear more recovered than he was, and Gaby frowned softly when she heard the American admit to aches that still kept him from sleeping, or the way his breath ran short. He grudgingly admitted the difficulty he had getting out of bed now that his hip wound had ruptured. So when Napoleon's head started to droop, she pulled him to her side, familiarly. But she still watched Illya, alert and intent.

MFU

 _21 Days Later, New York City_

Two days earlier when the medical team had burst in the ambulance bay and whisked Illya into the trauma room, she had stayed by his side. She remained at the head of his bed and as the staff flowed around her. But the sight of the Solo stumbling into the room to lean against the wall, hit her with pang of guilt. Her eyes did not miss a wet, dark stain on his hip. He had done too much that day, it had cost the American. Illya mumbled then, and withdrew suddenly from the hands of nurse trying to insert a needle.

Gaby ran and hand over his face. "Easy, Illya. You're safe. Illya, lay still." And then she said it in soft German as she held the oxygen onto his face. Illya stilled, seeming to listen to her. The look of gratitude and companionship the nurse gave her made Gaby feel warm. She tried not to look at everything, seeing the Russian so vulnerable, exposed, and hurt, made her feel uneasy. She looked instead up for her partner, seeking support. Solo took her cue and had approached the bed cautiously, staff at first seemed to feel crowded. Illya choose that moment to start rolling away from the probing hand on him. "Peril, let the sawbones do their job. American doctors are actually quite skilled." The large Russian writhing on the small stretcher caused more than one item to hit the floor. One of staff stated he was concerned the Russian would tip it over.

"Well I can't order sedation until I complete a proper neurological exam. Tie him down if you have to." The chief physician had pulled back from his exam, but was holding an IV needle and line in the crook of Illya's arm while the nurse secured it. Several orderlies watched carefully to prevent Illya from striking at the pair. The rest had backed away while the large man bucked on the table. Gaby had hunched over and was singing softly in his ear. One of the monitors still attached started to beep in warning.

Solo took over then. "Doctor, if you please." He shouldered past protectively.

"Illya, you must stop taking everything so seriously. When I said it was your turn next to be shot at, I hardly meant this." Napoleon's tone was so light, and then he repeated something Russian. Gaby felt a flash of insecurity that she was unable to help. She saw Illya respond to that voice, his wild blue eyes locking on Solo.

"Cowboy, not believe here. Help me up. They come back." Gaby's heart missed a beat. Illya had never seemed scared to her before. He had been anchor, even in hours before she had betrayed them. "Do not worry, I'll be close by." And the softness in his eyes when he said that to her, had stayed with Gaby.

Napoleon took over for the doctor and kept the IV in place in his partner's arm. "Illya, analyze your surroundings. You are frightening the pretty nurses in a hospital." He waved the rest of the staff back away. In this urgent situation, full of witness, her suave American partner was holding court, everyone watching him preform.

The big man shook his head. "Gaby needs to go, they hurt her too. Hurt us." Gaby felt her heart twist.

Napoleon got that odd look in his eye like he was thinking. And he starting talking again in first in Russian and then, "Peril, stop, let us help you. Gaby tell him."

Gaby stroked his face, "I know your hurting, please lay down for me, and we'll let you sleep."

"You not dancing." The thick Russian voice was unmistakable, and Gaby stopped humming the song by Solomon Burke. Illya settled back then, letting the tension go. The entire room took a breath.

The doctor spoke soft this time, as he incline his head in gratitude. "Squeeze two litres of Saline dextrose in now, and moment that's done, get a new blood pressure and push five of morphine. Everybody else wait till that medication is in."

The staff corralled both of the agents near the head of the bed, and soon a curtain was draped so neither Gaby or Napoleon could see was going on as the nurses cut away clothes, and doctors ordered blood work, and scans, and dressings. But she watched his face, as he scowled then seem to stare distantly off at her a few minutes after the medication was in. One doctor had already checked pupils, and a few reflexes. And some new drug called diazepam was given then, and Illya had gone limp. They slipped a short tube into his mouth then and replaced the oxygen mask.

Napoleon had wavered after things had settled, shaking with pain, as they both watched as the medical team worked on their comrade. Now she was ashamed of her neglect of the other man, Gaby had noticed his failing condition and flagged down a clerk to page the staff from the floor where Napoleon was admitted. Within ten minutes, Solo's favourite nurse, a petite redhead had come down with a large needle and a wheelchair. So now he waited with Gaby sitting in the wheelchair, his face no longer contracted and reddened from pain.

Napoleon's recovery had not been simple either. He was still healing himself from several surgeries to repair the bullet holes, on antibiotics that made it difficult to eat, and pain medication that need to be tapered down as he improved. But his limp required attention and a skilled therapist worked with the spy so he would recover his mobility. He had also been shaky for the first few days after they had arrived at the American hospital to recover, and had been irritable. Kuryakin had refused to bring a drink, and Gaby was relieved that Solo never asked her to. So both of Solo's partners sat with him as the staff were not so easily charmed. That had been the pattern until Illya had left one day for a run, a shower and promise to return with clothes and food for Gaby, and had never come back.

Gaby heard the procession as the staff hustled about inserting several lines running fluids and medications in, and making judgements about what they should attend to next. The staff spoke in professional horror examining at the cumulative damage. The team had needed to wash Illya head to toe with disinfectant before focusing individually on his wounds. The ankle was x-rayed, revealing a dislocation, needing to be carefully operated on and casted well so that the joint would heal. Even with the Russian's fortitude, he could look forward to six weeks of babying the joint, and then recovery of its function after with hard work. That was, if he survived the septicemia and hypovolemic shock.

The team had worked carefully assessing every inch of him, and turned him to find ever more abrasions, and bruises. But shockingly they found little more than the damage to his ankle, the single gunshot, the water exposure broken the skin on his legs, bruises, and the deep rope burns. His arms also were moving poorly, and likely had injuries to the muscles that would be harder to asses until the Russian could cooperate.

Napoleon had whispered to her that he surmised Illya's captors had been afraid to go near him. Gaby hoped that the lack of other obvious damage did not mean the doctors missed something, or that Illya had broken down and spilled information. She was still unable to piece together why Illya had gone missing that day. The street child had come to her on the walk from the hotel where she and Illya had been staying to the hospital where Solo should have been a resident. He had told her in broken, uneducated English that a Ruskie like hers was in fishing shop that closed last year, down off the street with sign that was half burned. And then he had run off like a shot, leaving Gaby aghast.

Waverly had informed the KGB that Illya had been found alive, but it remained a mystery as to why he was held. No Soviet secrets appeared on the news, and Kuryakin's handler was not crying for blood for some comprised Russian asset.

MFU

 _23 Days Later, New York City_

Upstairs in the hospital suite, Gaby held her breath as Illya's thick lashes fluttered for the first time in two days. He lay propped up in bed by pillows, half sitting up and turned to his side. The doctors had titrated down the sedatives, but the man was still largely doped. A feeding tube was down his nose, two IV's ran into his left arm, and a tube ran out from the middle of the bed and was frequently check by the doctors and nursing staff. Its colour had finally begun to lighten. Pain medication was given at intervals, even though nothing was evident on his slack face, all his wounds bandaged. The morphine alternated with penicillin, as the necrotic wound on his thigh and various cuts started to look less threatening.

Once they had hydrated the Russian, the biggest danger was the infection that had weeks to spread. The bullet wound was old, almost as old as the ankle injury. The worst of the wounds were all from more than two weeks ago. Only bruises existed in various stages of healing. But it appeared as though they had stopped feeding the Russian, then eventually decided to execute him, in that awful fashion.

But right now, Illya refused to open his eyes for her even as she cajoled him, taking this opportunity to innocently touch him, stroking his face as the Russian tried to mumble on a dry throat. She put a single ice shaving from the cup in his mouth with a spoon. His tongue flicked at the moisture. He spoke again, somewhat clearer, but in Russian.

Gaby felt somewhat helplessly annoyed, and shook Napoleon awake. "Talk to him quickly."

Napoleon looked momentarily confounded before speaking. "Peril, Gaby and I are here, please wake up for us?"

Illya stiffened, and more slurred Russian filled up the emptiness in the room. He sounded frightened. Gaby rolled her eyes, "In Russian."

Napoleon carried on without a beat, this time in that overly long parlance that sounded so awkward to her ears. She picked up only one word from what Napoleon said, _Tovarisch_ , for friend. Illya relaxed, and something that sounded like Cowboy and Chop Shop Girl mushed together, and he fell back asleep.

Gaby smiled then, for the first time in three weeks.

Napoleon's mouth curled, "We were supposed to call the doctor when he woke up."

* * *

So hope that was slightly lighter than last, time, but probably not. I really tried to dig into poor Illya's psyche, and I drew some pretty dark conclusions.

Also I hope the fight between Illya and Solo was convincing enough, intended to be more of a play fight, but each of the boy's temper got in the way.

So I hated the chapter titles and decided to rename them to song titles from the playlist I made to write this.

Okay, heard loud and clear that I need to slow down and edit more closely. Spent some time going through each chapter and fixed more than a few embarrassing typos. Sorry if it was a rough read.

Not so many comments with the last chapter, any thing I can improve on?


	4. Hey Man Nice Shot

_5 Days Before, Istanbul_

Following Gaby off the Istanbul beach, Solo hazarded a glance back at the Russian who was following him quietly. The Russian had has eyes focused down on the sand in front of him, but Solo was sure that Kuryakin did not miss Solo's scrutiny. The Russian had proved to have nearly inhuman environmental awareness and reflexes. For just having been knocked unconscious, the burly man moved surprising well. Napoleon was glad that his teammate was tough, as he had felt guilty about giving that man a head injury. While the Russian had succeeding in orchestrating a situation where the third member of their party had been able to place a tracker on the criminal's to lead them back to their headquarters and bioweapon, Kuryakin had obviously let his personal feelings get a hold on his better judgement. But Solo thought very quietly, that he had to overreacted to the Russian's blow up. And Solo maybe had taunted Kuryakin by spending time pleasantly with Gaby. Illya obviously desired the woman, while Solo took advantage of the circumstances placing himself and the pretty agent together, and other men have come to blows over less.

However, Solo doubted if their ragtag team stuck together that this mission would be the last time that Gaby would be expected to be overly familiar with someone that was not Illya, and that would be something the team would have to learn to deal with. Right now Gaby was bristling with anger and likely confusion. Illya had used some fairly strong words, jealous words, and from the shocked look on Gaby's face, it was obvious that she had not heard him express those feeling to her. Still, if Illya had thought what he said should have been invented for the sake of the ruse, Illya's words had betrayed him, casting light to his own desires. Once again, Illya's approach to Gaby was not so nicely done. From the rude proposal in the clothing store starting off their first mission, to this, Illya was remarkably like a bull in china shop. Fortunately as young Gaby had worked in a mechanic shop, she had likely heard that kind of language before now.

Solo followed Gaby into the rented limousine, taking the front passenger seat. Gaby was driving for the first time since landing in Istanbul. She appeared to be more soothed already from just gripping the steering wheel and caressing the gear shift. Spoiled heiresses did not know how to drive. Gaby likely was going to enjoy whipping her teammates around with a skillful recklessness through the city. When Illya arrived at the car and saw his seating options, he raised his brows and hopped in the back without a word.

The Russian had gone from being reasonable chatty on the last mission after growing more familiar to his assigned partners, to very circumspect this time around. The hired help did not converse casually with his betters. Solo had missed the banter, and the Russian's independent remorseless spirit. It had amused Solo to verbally spar with someone who could hold his own, even if he occasionally got the better of the American agent.

"Equipment is set up back there. Can you get a read on that tracker, and give Gaby a bearing to start on?" Solo asked intentionally questioning obnoxiously as the Russian put on a pair of headphones and began adjusting his equipment settings.

"Are you asking or ordering, sir?" Kuryakin cut back in a mockery of the tone and formal address he was forced to use for the duration of the mission. Solo considered that tone, it was progress towards an easy banter, but it still obviously held resentment – approaching status quo then.

They travelled in silence for a few minutes, the scenery quickly changing into the crowded streets that only poorly accommodated the larger vehicle. Istanbul was an enlivened place, full of bustling markets, and smells of exotic dishes. Gaby had enjoyed a little bit of shopping and haggling between mission objectives, while Illya disdained the food, trying to eat as plainly as he could. Napoleon had noticed that the Russian had spent much of his time in bathrooms again this mission, this time not developing photography.

"Found them yet?" Gaby asked heading out in the direction she saw them leave.

"Yes. Give me minute." And Illya began guiding them to an area of the city Solo did not expect.

"There is now way the lab is set up there. It's too much like those overrated dime store spy novellas." Solo shook his head. Illya stared at him an unchanging disapproval on his face. "No, the Russian has obviously been disoriented. We are lost. It's too cliché."

"Russian tracker does not lie." The Russian got out of the car, and gestured up at the historical Galalta Tower. "And there is electric light coming from that window." Gaby had parked facing away from the building at the mouth of an empty alley. The car was hidden in the lengthening shadows of the evening.

"Well, we should not keep them waiting then." Solo answered and broke away from the car. "Gaby stay close by, we will have a look around, and make sure there are no surprises. Kuryakin, what will you be doing." But there was no answer, and the Russian had already melted into the shadows and disappeared.

"We should not have split up." Gaby said, and looked around. "What if we are caught?"

"We will find each other, it's what we do. Now, stop talking and follow me. Get your gun out once we're out of sight of the street. And don't aim it near me." Solo and Gaby crept around the edges of the tower, circling it, looking for the obvious entrances. There was no sight of the Russian agent. But the vehicle they saw leaving the beach with the research and the sample of the poison was present, and empty.

"See that window, I'll boost you up, and see if anyone is in the room. If it's empty, go inside and help me up." Solo decided on his course of ingress, and soon Gaby and he had broken into one of the oldest structures in Turkey.

The pair made their way through the rooms on that level, Solo keeping his ears peeled for enemy agents, or Kuryakin. The room held boxes of files and notes that obviously had set up development and production of the poison. "This is too much for us to carry out of here." Solo cursed.

"So we need to clear the bottom floor and lock it, and then work our way up so no one can leave with it?" Gaby suggested. "No one will be sliding through windows above the second floor to get in behind us." Solo reflected that the tower's internal design allowed the terrorists some assurance that they could control movement. Sound would also reflect loudly off the stone walls, preventing them from being snuck up on.

"Good idea. Let's go down then." Solo moved to the wrapping stairs, facing out with his silenced pistol. But they found no alive enemy agents aside from two lab assistants bound and a gagged in a closet. One of them had crudely written note on his lab coat in Cyrillic. "Poison secure with me. In pursuit."

"Red Peril has been here." Solo glanced over the documents spread over the counter. "Gaby grab those files and we'll stash them in that room upstairs." Otherwise the ground level for the tower was one open area, a few benches and electrical lights set up. Most everything had been crated up, with obvious intentions of moving elsewhere.

"Looks like we got here just before they took their enterprise global." Solo took note of the address stamped into the crates. Waverly would like to hear about that connection once they finished up at this site.

"Upstairs shall we?" Solo asked once he had finished looking through everything in the room, noting nothing else removable was particularly dangerous. Having a panicked terrorist bolt off with crucial evidence or documents would have been unfortunate.

"Age before beauty," Agent Teller agreed and pointed for Solo to lead the way. And it was here that Solo knew in hindsight, he made his mistake. Having just been on this floor just cleared it of enemy operative activity, Solo expected it to be empty. So with that assumption in mind, that is exactly what he saw. Gaby kept her gun, a little heavy in her less experienced hands aimed up at the next flight of stairs, keeping her back to cover. Solo's sharp eyes did not catch the man standing in the nook behind the stairs who waited with diligent calmness for the pair to drop the last file off. Solo stopped then to pick a device off his belt pouch locking the bolted door with a padlock, one so not easily picked. The little invention would trigger a loud explosion if it was tampered with. A hidden button on the back was must be depressed when it was rotated to open it safely. The device was designed to incapacitate the person attempting to open it, and signal the agent if it was opened. Solo had packed his gear with the Russian earlier, and hoped that Kuryakin would not try to bypass it.

So as he set the lock, his focus on that task, quietly narrating to Gaby what he was up to, she might as well learn this as well, the figure that lurked beneath the steps raised his gun focussed on the American.

Solo had just about finished explaining the foot pounds of force that accompanied the grenade like explosion that would leave a fused ring still holding the lock shut when a gunshot cracked and took his breath away.

He turned then and put two bullets quickly into the head of his assailant, but the unsilenced shot still echoed in the large stone tower. "Damn it."

Gaby's eyes were wide, but after the man hit the ground, she resumed her stance guarding the upper stair case. Solo quickly cleared the room, again, and noted with self-derision where their attacker had hidden.

"Cowboy?" Gaby queried.

"I'll go first, watch our six." Solo lead the way up the stairs, the mission devolving from a secure and contain with enemies, to shoot on sight, and Solo took out five men on the next floor. The next level of the tower was empty.

"They must have retreated upwards." Solo guessed. And stopped. He had to cough, and warm foam bubbled up into his mouth. He spat it out. Gaby gasped then.

"Solo! Where? You're bleeding." Solo did not feel it then, so wrapped up in the cold energy he drew from when working on a mission like this. But when he relaxed, he noted he could feel a warm trickle down his side from his right ribs.

"Oh." It did not hurt. "I believe I was shot." And his world was narrowed then. He did not precisely stumble, but he felt a head rush coming on, adrenaline flowing more thickly in his veins then oxygen. Gaby came in under his shoulder and kept a grip on him.

"Where to?" Gaby asked. And a couple shouts echoed from below them. No effective cover existed on this level, just a few blankets and cushions.

"Peril just had to drive those other men back here didn't he?" Solo started to ask, but had to take a breath in between spoiling his sarcasm. "Up then."

And Gaby pulled him up the stairs, her gun firing for the first time, as soon as they could see the next floor. One man fell to the stone, then another. Solo shot a third man before pain struck him. A spray of automatic gunfire filled the stairwell, and Napoleon crushed his body over Gaby's pushing her down to the cool floor. At least two ricochets hit him. The start bursts of pain hit him near simultaneously before going dull. But his partner stayed safe shielded by him. Two more silent gunshots sounded then, and the automatic gunfire fell silent.

"He's dead." Gaby breathed softly. Solo belatedly recognized she had poked her gun out under his arm, and fired.

"Where the hell is Kuryakin," Solo tried to ask, as Gaby pulled them upwards, the sounds of them men beneath them were growing louder. Solo put a few more rounds into the men Gaby had shot that were still moaning on the floor. They stopped moving.

It was the top floor now. The point roof assured him that no one waited above. A few tables lay on their sides, but nothing stirred. Solo gave a hand signal to flank the tables. Automatic gunfire sounded from below them. The explosion Solo had set up triggered - he recognised that high pitched whine. Gaby let him go then, and circled around the tables herself, her gun raised, the barrel hardly shaking. Solo took three steps, before a dark figure sprang at him. He only got one wild shot off before the man hit him.

And all of the air rushed out of his chest when his back impacted the edge of the stone tower, above an open window. In the skirmish, everything that should have started hurt before, started to burn against him. The ledge was low on his upper thighs. Physics worked against him as he tried to lever his body against his opponent as he had little to brace himself with in that wide window. Gaby had stopped moving when the barrel of this attacker's gun leveled at her. With one hand gripping Solo's shirt front, and the other hand of his opponent pointing a gun at Gaby, the attention focussed on the gun hand, Solo knew that this was his time to make a move. Solo shot his gun pressed tightly against his attacker's chest. The man startled in pain as a deep furrow was etched into his stomach and leg, pushed Napoleon away from him. Solo felt himself fall backwards, and caught his hand on the ledge of the window, his feet dangling, before too finding purchase.

But the pain that ripped through Napoleon's lower back, hip and his chest was robbing him very quickly of the ability to move. His hands were becoming very numb. Staring at them, he saw his extremities were a ghostly, clammy white.

He was not able to draw in a deep breath to shout for Gaby, but she appeared anyway. Brown eyes huge as she looked out and down, seeing him cling to the edge. "Solo, hold on."

 _I'm trying._ But Solo could not get the words out, the edges of his vision were narrowing into a dark tunnel, and he missed what she said next, his hearing going oddly quiet.

A strong grip latched onto his wrists, and pulled him up and over the window ledge.

"Your wound sucks, Cowboy. Hold his hands." And a sharp pain into his lower right chest between his ribs on the side had him thrashing. Illya was making good on his attempt to kill him. He had a knife and after feeling for the rib edges, pushed his blade into Napoleon's side. He could feel a finger enter the wound, and wiggle between his ribs, before something pushed into the wound, and all of a sudden it was so much easier to breath.

He lay there taking fuller and deeper breaths until he was able to open eyes he did not know he had closed. Illya crouched over him, now holding a clamp, and bent over him securing it to something attached to him. Solo picked up his head and saw black tubing exiting his chest under his right bicep.

"That tube must not come out. Will likely need to empty his lung again before getting to extraction." Illya's voice sounded farther away than it should have. Gaby lay on the ground, pulling off her stockings. Napoleon did not miss Illya's appreciation of her legs, but the Russian turned back and caught Solo's eyes.

"Sorry for late arrival. Kept stragglers from getting away. Then had to take my time up the stairs so I did not get shot." He bunched another piece of cloth onto Napoleon's hip and then took off his own belt to secure it. "Cowboy should try it next time."

"What?" Solo asked feeling dreamy.

"Not getting shot." Illya answered as he pulled the belt tight.

Pain stole what was happening next, but Solo realized he was sitting up supported by the Russian while Gabby wrapped her stockings around the tube leaving his chest then tied the legs together circling him. Ingenious their German girl was.

"Illya, is he going to be alright." Solo kept his eyes closed as he waited for an answer. He was curious himself, as this kind of injury was not something he had dealt with before. He had been shot, tortured, and cut in the past, but not to point where he was incapacitated. Sometimes it payed to have partners.

"Cowboy's going to live until he bleeds to death." Illya answered and Solo snorted.

"Thanks for the reassurance." And then Solo started coughing. Gaby held the tube to his side and Illya opened and closed the clamp just as Solo settled. Solo wondered which piece of lab equipment Illya had taken in from, or if the Russian had stopped to wonder what it was contaminated with.

"Stop talking." Kuryakin ordered, and moved to pick him up bridal style.

"Gaby, did you get hit, are you okay?" Solo suddenly asked, realizing he was not sure how she fared. It was not at all his usual suave style, but he hurt, and she was looking shaky, and no longer had her gun.

"I'm not hurt." She said simply. "Not so sure about okay." Solo felt Illya tremble underneath him, and one of the hands holding him started having the finger tap.

"Gaby burn the files on way out. Have sample and copy in my pack." And Kuryakin started down the steps, clutching the other spy to him, leaving Solo feeling a bit trapped and embarrassed, then feeling so tired.

"Did not mean for you to go to sleep." Illya's arms squeezed him, and Napoleon jerked, glaring at the Russian for causing the fresh wave of pain.

"Pain will keep blood pressure up." Kuryakin said, but carefully made his way down the steps. The stairs took some time to get through. More than one body lay in the way, and blood, brain made it slick in places. It was a gristly sight, reminding him too much of the war. Solo was relieved to see that the Russian looked at least a touch winded by the bottom, and sweat had broken on his brow.

"Out of shape?" Napoleon asked faintly. He had to make some attempt to not be a damsel in distress.

"Just not used to carrying dead weight, Cowboy. This is why I worked alone." Illya answered sternly, but a smile played at the corner of his mouth.

"Illya!" Gaby's scandalised voice came from somewhere in front of them. Solo was having trouble looking around to see her. Solo was feeling awfully exposed, it was not exactly his best showing this mission.

"Peace, Gaby. Just keeping Cowboy riled up." And Napoleon lost his breath again when Illya set up in the back of the limo and crawled in after him. "Drive to extraction, quickly."

"Already on it. Just don't start arguing back there." Gaby accelerated, but not so fast that the men lost their balance in the back of the car.

Illya eased the pressure off on the clamp and more bright pink blood sprayed out as he commanded Solo to inhale as hard as he could. "Good job. Must be slow bleed."

Illya pulled back then, digging in another bag in the back of the limo. Solo could see a lot of his own blood staining the Russian's clothes. "Not so slow."

"Don't be baby. Always looks worse." Illya answered and brought the first aid kit out and popped it open. "Let's see. That will do." Illya prepped a syringe and stuck it into Solo's bicep depressing the plunger. The bouncing of the car lulled Solo into a hazy sleep.

The last thing he heard was Illya whispering. "It's okay Cowboy. Did well. Gaby's safe. It's okay."

MFU

 _24 Days Later, New York_

Late at night when Napoleon was supposed to be resting in his own hospital room, he left his warm bed and went next door. Gaby was laid out on the couch, one arm stretched out above her, her hand tangled in the sheets on Illya's bed.

The Russian had woken up only briefly, but his fever still persisted. And the drugs certainly would keep him drowsy for a while. Napoleon had very recent experience for that. He scratched at a bandage still taped to his chest. He remembered little of the day he spent in the Turkish hospital, or the medical flight back to New York the next day. But he remembered the difficulty he had in staying awake, and fog created by the drugs shielding him from the pain. He did not begrudge Illya his sleep.

He made a movement to leave, and heard the sheets shift. Illya had picked up his head and his eyes looked blearily in front of him. "Where." The Russian word left his lips again.

Gaby's body seemed to bounce and she was up in an instant, another shaving of ice on a spoon into the Russian's mouth. She replied back the Russian word for hospital, something she insisted Napoleon teach her. She had been working on her Russian, but was far from fluent. Solo smiled at her choice for the first language she wanted to learn outside of those she spoke with family.

Napoleon took a few steps closer to the Russian's bed. "Kuryakin, are you awake?"

The Russian closed his eyes. "Yes." It was a clear, if unwilling response. Illya was lucid, but the response sounded angry. It was truly Illya then.

Napoleon bit down all the question's that boiled to the surface. No matter what had happened, it would be a delicate issue to address, even for someone like the Red Peril. The CIA had training on how to deal with being captured and tortured, but Solo always found himself unsettled and shaky afterwards. He doubted the KGB training was any more comprehensive. That agency was famous for implanting cyanide capsules into their agents' teeth. The latest time, he had been rescued by Illya, and been distracted by his calm manner and drive finish the mission. This time Solo and Gaby would have to steady Illya. Gaby stood up then, "I'll go get the doctors."

"You look better." Illya said in Russian and tried to gesture with his right arm, the one not burdened by IV lines. Bandages still wrapped thickly on his wrists though.

"I've had some time to get better." Solo answered and sat at the foot of Illya's bed. He moved wrong and could not keep a wince off of his face. Illya jerked as if to help, and settled back after he realized he was not getting very far.

"Not long enough. How long?" Illya asked, very quietly.

"Three weeks." Solo answered, and watched as disbelief filtered over Illya's face. The man seemed to take it poorly, his hands twitching before they settled on their own.

"Gaby?" Illya asked, and Solo knew how the Russian had calmed himself.

Napoleon could not resist taking advantage of this vulnerable moment to imprint something on the Russian. Something he hoped the man would remember and it would not be blunted by medication. "Has done nothing but search and worry over you. She has had Waverly jumping through hoops, and the police force reporting to her. With her skills, she'll be the director one day." Illya's jaw was clenched in something like pride with that, Solo agreed. "But, she cried in my room for days Peril. Over you. I doubt if I had died, she would have grieved half that long. If you love her find a way to tell her. She deserves that much."

The Russian's chest heaved up and down a few times. Before he could reply, Gaby followed the doctors back into the room.

Both of the agents from U.N.C.L.E. left the room so the doctors could complete their exam in private. Gaby waited with Solo in the hall. Gaby stopped in front of Solo. "What did he say?"

"Nothing to explain any of this. We will have to ask him. If someone is going to come and finish the job, I'd like to know." Solo answered solemnly. While no one that was not staff at the hospital had tried to enter that room, Solo knew that once those that had Illya knew had was alive, they would come looking.

"I'll talk to him." Gaby said. Napoleon felt the protectiveness in her assertion, but it was a protectiveness that may get them both killed. And Napoleon tried not to be affected that Gaby meant to protect Illya from him. While the men had their differences, they had seen eye to eye about important issues, the fate of terrorist materials and over her. Despite tensions that arose in Istanbul, Napoleon hoped he made it clear that whatever Illya's feeling were, Solo would not be a spike that drove them apart.

Solo shook his head. "Both of us will."

* * *

Only one more chapter and an epilogue to go folks. But don't worry I have ideas for more one shots, until I plan their next adventure. All of the reviews for chapter three made me feel warm and inspired.

Hope everyone reading continues to enjoy this. Please let me know if you have a minute to spare.


	5. Under the Bridge

_24 Days Later, New York City_

The doctors left Illya's room looking at the two waiting spies with guarded relief written on their faces. Illya heard them immediately report to his two partners. Illya briefly wondered what had happened to confidentiality. "Your friend appears neurologically intact, unsure of the exact date, but otherwise alert and oriented. He has badly sprained his shoulders, and neck however, and will have difficulty moving his arms for up to a few weeks. He was able to sit at the side of the bed for us, but, we do not want him to over exert himself until his infection is under control. And that leg of his need's to stay elevated. Remind him to stay in bed if he wishes to get up for now. The feeding tube can come out in the morning, we'll give him a chance to eat himself. We won't need to sedate him further, unless he becomes distressed."

The doctors looked at each other and to where Gaby and Solo waited. "Will a psychiatrist be seeing him from your organization? One should." He missed any reply that his teammates gave them. The doctors then moved to the desk to update the chart.

Illya's teeth gritted at that. He had tried to keep himself relaxed with the American doctors, but right now he could feel himself winding up, sounds from the rest of the world fading away from him. He felt small and trapped in the hospital bed, the doctors had put the rails up as they left, barring him in. His thin clothing, and the thin blankets offered little protection. The meager light filtering from the hall cast deep shadows. He was exposed, and hurting. And right now he wished to be at home in Russia, more than anything, alone in the room he rented from the babushka who always spoiled him when he came home. The American's poking at his injuries and asking him pointless questions felt too similar to before. His landlord would simply bring him a jug of fresh water and cup of broth, and leave. He looked down at his wrist, covered in the bandage and wondered what had happened to his watch. It had disappeared into one of the American's pockets last time he had seen it. Twice now it had been stolen from him. And the beating he received when he protested its loss had not cowed his fury over his absence. Last time Solo had told him to take it like a pussy. And this time, he had little choice.

If he could get up and wash his hands and his face, the feeling of the cool water might relieve his pent up frustration, but he felt too heavy to move far. But even the pain elicited by the doctors to discover his injuries did not press against him as much as the rising rage twisting in his gut. Rage at his own impotence, feeling helpless and unbalanced. Illya felt nothing more than the need to leave, not caring what or who was in his way. But his body failed him again, trapped him again where he did not want to be. His usually terrible anger was ineffective at freeing him.

Illya heard footsteps as three figures entered his room. He did not take note of who they were, but two of them stopped and pushed the third back out, and shut the door. "Trust us. You'll get hurt if you try and touch him now. We'll call." A smooth American voice said, but it was a familiar voice.

A smaller figure approached his bed. "Illya, calm down. Calm down." He saw the man reach out to pull her back but at her warning glance, relented.

"Peril talk to us." The American voice only made it harder to focus.

Their voices buzzed at the foot of his bed as his breathing laboured, huffing. He gripped the sheets over him in his fingers and wrenched at them, and they tore. He saw small hands cover his then, and pulled them apart. They were familiar and felt so warm, even as he felt scabs rip under the bandages. And the red began bleeding out of his vision.

"Illya. Please calm done. You're sick, please." The sound of that foreign accent was like a balm to his ears.

Accented Russian spoke to him then. "Peril, control yourself before they send in someone to sedate you. I have a few things to ask, and I must ask." Solo appeared at the foot the bed, one hand protectively on Gaby's shoulders. Ready to pull her away from danger, away from him. Shame filled him then and he let go of the ragged linens in his hands.

Illya looked down at his hands in disgust. "What do you need to ask?" He said it in German. He did not want to hear English right now. He did not think about why.

Solo's too perceiving gaze looked at him, trying to dig up the reasons for Illya's choice. "Peril, is anyone going to come after you?" He responded in kind. Gaby was still trying to hold his hand. Illya felt claustrophobic and pulled back from her.

He wouldn't look at the hurt in her eyes, but saw pity in Solo's. He answered Solo's question. "No."

"The people who held you, won't they care that you're still…" Gaby trailed off.

At the mention of his failure, his capture by those… He tried to baton down the rage that threatened to fill him up again. He had not heard disgust in his partners' voices yet, but he was sure he would. "Still alive. They thought I was already dead. I should have been dead."

Gaby grabbed his hand then a pressed a kiss into it. "I'm glad you're still here." He felt oddly relieved at that gesture.

"Illya, this was not done legally, regardless of which group had you. Waverly would have known about a kill order from the agencies. Who had you?" Solo asked, curious. Illya knew how skittishly he appeared to be acting, speaking in German, and trying to fly apart anytime he heard American. He would have to tamp those reactions down. But he did not want to answer tonight. Nothing he did not say would put Solo or U.N.C.L.E. in danger.

So he simply replied. "Don't let Gaby walk alone." And he turned his head away, saw the bell for the nurse and rang it. She came in, and looked at his partners before approaching him. And in English he asked about the morphine the doctor's offered before they left his room. And the dear nurse had brought it with her and gave him another dose. It was not enough to force him to sleep, but it was enough to push anything that Solo's and Gaby's well-meaning questions brought up away.

"Get some rest Peril." Solo had said simply, and he left. Gaby frowned at him and settled back next to Illya's head. She put her head down on the arm of a sofa, and soon he heard the deep and even breathing of sleep. Only then did he let the narcotics float him away. His team was safe.

MFU

 _25 Days Later, New York City_

The next morning Illya woke up to Waverly standing at the foot of his bed. A reserved English look that Illya chose to interpret as frown, made Illya wish he was more careful at opening his eyes. But he knew when he was caught. "Sir."

"Good morning Kuryakin, its jolly good to hear your voice." And his superior looked like he actually meant it. Illya froze. He had been prepared to defend against accusations, screams, and threats. But he was utterly unnerved by the calm expression on Waverly's face.

"Not such a good morning for you I wager, but from what the doctors say, it will get better. With a little time and therapy, you'll regain full use of your leg, once you go for surgery to fix that ankle. The surgeons wish to wait until infection is under better control first." Waverly smiled at Gaby who rose sleepily off the couch. Illya stole a quick look at her, enjoying her mussed hair, and bleary expression.

"But I'm sure the doctor's explained that to you last night, but it can be awfully hard to keep everything straight when one's unwell." Waverly nodded. Illya felt compelled to nod as well. "Ice chip?"

Gaby held the spoon up to his face, with a mostly melted sip of water. Illya squirmed uncomfortable with the attention and he brought a clumsy hand up. His head felt much clearer, but trauma and disuse made his body unreliable. Brown curls bobbed where they had freed themselves from her ponytail. And she dumped the spoonful into his mouth as he opened it to protest.

"Ms. Teller, would you mind giving us some time, uninterrupted. And please ensure Agent Solo is otherwise occupied for the time being." Waverly did not state it as a command, but Gaby bristled. Illya's stomach churned. He was not sure why. He did not want to speak in front of her what Waverly was duty-bound to ask, but he felt more comfortable and in control with her presence. And that too put him off balance.

"I'll be back Illya, with a little food for you to try." Gaby promised, and Illya was struck, as that was the last thing he had promised her. He had ended up lying to Gaby, something he promised never to do.

He did not answer her. She gave him an encouraging smile, and closed the door on her way out.

"Well, Kuryakin, I must say I'm lost. One of my three new agents ends up shot on mission where you were not at the scene to cover him." Waverly held up his hand to forestall anything Illya wanted to say, but Waverly's tone remained perfectly conversational. "After you and Solo tried to beat each other senseless over Ms. Teller, and then once you are all back here, where I plan to set up my chief base of operations, you disappear. You being an agent with superior tactical skills, and nearly in human perceptions and physical ability. No agency made a peep about capturing or recruiting you, which I dare say would not have gone unnoticed in a city like this, nor did any criminal organizations appear to benefit from your willing or unwilling cooperation. What logical conclusions should I have drawn?"

Illya remained silent. Even the question Waverly posed was evenly stated. "Naturally I should have, and indeed did mention aloud that perhaps you were going to cut out and start over on a different continent. You may even have been far enough to escape the KGB. Ms. Teller rather vehemently defended your character, and even Solo thought it was improbable. But seeing what condition your teammates found you in, and from your statements last night, I deduce that something else entirely happened. You become irritated, perhaps even fearful when around American speakers. Your torture and therefore your interrogation was sloppy and half finished. They left to you die awfully in a way that had some religious significance. And you are not concerned about an effort to finish you off now. So tell me Kuryakin, what happened."

And this time, Illya had not noticed Waverly slip into perfectly unaccented Russian. And so he started from when he left the hospital that day. And he told his handler about his failure, and his shame.

At the end of it Waverly nodded. "And you would be able to identify these men of course. And you will. You were doubtlessly not the first person they have targeted, you were an escalation."

"I will be the last." Illya vowed. His finger beat steadily against the blanket. The movement stretched the healing skin around his wrist, and across his palms. And it only emphasized the missing watch.

"Kuryakin. Right now, I want to you to close your eyes. You are not going to be punished. I am not going to threaten you, or belittle your family. But you will hurt yourself if you lose control. And if you get yourself ejected from this hospital for making the staff feel unsafe, I will be cross. Find something to center yourself, now."

"Gaby." Illya said. He felt unnerved to admit it out loud. "Her voice."

"It's safe to bring her in?" Waverly asked. Illya felt a flush of self-recrimination. Of course with his reputation, no gentleman would expose a lady to his temper. But she had seen it before.

Illya shook his head no. It was foolish for him to suggest it, but at that Waverly turned and left. He lay in bed and fought the urge to rip out the IV's in his arm, the tube down his nose, and turn everything over. Warm hands cupped his as she practically sat across his lap. "Illya, enough."

Gaby Teller perched on the side of his hospital bed, far too close for comfort, and touched her head to his. "Waverly said he's satisfied by your response to his questions, and it's up to you to talk to us. I can see you're upset, but I am not letting you wallow in self-pity or whatever this is forever. Talk to me, or talk to Solo, I don't care. And you don't get to refuse to speak English, until you teach me Russian, whatever this is about."

And Illya was transfixed by her rant. And focussed on that, instead of his inept failure. And so he answered her in Russian just to see steam pour from her ears. "I don't want you to be upset, my love." And that was the moment Solo stepped into the room.

The man's animated face nodded appreciably at that. And he answered in kind, which made Gaby hiss in irritation at them both. "Not exactly the straightforward approach I had in mind, but small steps I suppose." Solo switched to English. "So Waverly said you have a story to tell us."

Illya looked at Gaby, "Thought you were bringing me breakfast."

She snorted derisively. "I'll bring it when you are not going to throw it everywhere. And don't think you are going to change the subject that easily." But she did leave to go get whatever the hospital was going to let him have, likely weak broth.

"How much does Gaby know of my file?" Illya asked, trying to speak in English, testing out the words in his mouth. It grated on him. The language sounded so ugly to him, but he knew that it was irrational.

"I'm not actually sure, it depends what Waverly shared with her. Why?" Solo answered. And Illya wished he were still drugged and sleeping.

"I do not wish the only things she knows of me to be my failures." Illya said. His voice tight.

"What failures, because of your chess rating, or your judo mastery, or your speed boat medals. Please enlighten me." Solo prodded him.

"You know exactly what I mean, you brought it up at coffee in West Berlin." Illya retorted.

Napoleon shook his head, "No. I'm starting to agree with Waverly, you're obsession with atoning for your parent's frankly abusive neglect needs to stop. It's not going to change the way Gaby feels about you, and you're letting it harm your career, the way you think about yourself. I'm guessing that it's also why you refuse to let yourself become close with her.

"So you and I are more alike than I wanted. Both with pasts that drive us, but the difference is I committed the crimes myself, and you were a victim." Solo took a breath. Illya's jaw was clenched, but he refused to let himself start twitching. Illya tried to relax and listen what the older spy had to say. "So Waverly told me only a short bit, but he did make it clear that you thought it was your fault what happened, that you let it happen."

"I did. I let myself be fooled like a child." Illya said.

"And I let myself be shot in the back. And I put Gaby in danger and almost got her killed, where I led her up through a series of rooms filled with even more hostiles. She killed her first person in her life because of me. She cried to me because of that to Peril. And then I let myself be thrown out a window." Solo said. And Solo stopped talking, which was fortunate because Illya was ready to cut him off.

"Cowboy, you are top agent of CIA, now likely top agent of U.N.C.L.E. And day you get Gaby killed is day the world burns. How can you blame yourself for being shot in firefight with terrorists?" Illya asked his voice raised.

Solo nodded. "I don't." And Illya felt himself annoyed that Cowboy forced him speak. "But I could. Whatever happened to you is the same. Gaby will be back soon. Illya it is not your fault."

Illya stopped and put his chin on his chest. The muscles in his shoulders burned up to the base of his skull. His leg throbbed in remembrance of the bullet he took. And when he picked up his head. "Okay Cowboy."

And Gaby returned with some jello, and a small cup of beef broth that he sipped at. It took him a while to eat even that little bit. Gaby smiling encouragingly at him, as he tried to hold the spoon himself with thick stiff fingers. Solo did not mention the jello spilled on the bedding in front of him.

"What kind of soup do you like Peril." Solo asked.

"Cream of Potato, mushroom… Why?" Illya asked but Solo only nodded.

"Okay," Gaby said, "will you talk to us now?"

Illya took a shallow breath and began. When he began self-recriminating Solo raised an imperious brow and shook a finger at him. And Illya started again.

MFU

 _Today_

Illya stood up from the hard chair he sat on in Solo's room, where the man slept fitfully. The doctors had just pulled his chest tube an hour prior, so Illya nervously watched for the man's breathing to worsen again, like it did when he first was shot several days before. But Solo remained easily asleep.

Illya's legs were aching to go for a run, or hit a gym, so he could work out his frustration with a weight set and a punching bag. He was not yet familiar with New York, but a city was a city, and he already found a reasonably lengthy running path down to the harbour and back. It was a city full of pedestrians, so getting off the main roads and further into the industrial area, made it easier to move around without dodging the natives. Additionally it allowed him to become familiar with the new city.

So when Gaby came into Solo's room wearing what she had on yesterday, Illya quickly stood and gestured to his vacated chair. "Be back in hour or two, with something to eat, and something else for you to wear. Solo is doing about the same. Probably wishes we could have stayed on the beach."

Gaby shook her head. "On the beach where you both tried to knock each other's blocks off, I doubt it. But Illya, if you want to catch a longer nap at the hotel, that's alright with me. You don't need to come back so fast." Gaby offered that, but Illya knew she had only slept a short while on a large sofa in visitors' lounge. He was going to ask the staff to bring it into Solo's room on his way out. He'd move it himself if he needed to.

Illya shook his head. "Will sleep later, going to go for run around first, then shower and change. What do you want for lunch, pizza?" He suggested hopefully.

Gaby laughed, "Not pizza again. Just find something else. See you soon." She stepped up to him.

Illya stopped and stared down at her, and she looked up at him with those soft big brown eyes. He gripped her shoulder and bit down any memory he had of anyone else but his little Chop Shop Girl. And he stopped himself from pulling her towards him when Solo stirred and asked, "What are you bringing me?"

"Absolutely nothing, Cowboy. Go back to sleep." But the spell was broken between Illya and Gaby so he turned and left the room.

He missed Gaby curse.

On his way out of the hospital, he noted the time on his father's watch and set out at slow run. The aches of the morning disappeared as his legs stretched out over the pavement. He got a few odd looks, but for the most part no one looked up from their own lives as he made his way past. His long stride ate up miles, and he soon reach the edge of the city over the water. The run always quieted his mind, and he enjoyed the release of endorphins.

This city was not such a bad place to call home for a while. He would miss nothing in the tiny room he rented in Moscow. Material possessions for the most part meant nothing to him. Aside from the watch on his wrist that was more a memento to best part of his life, before he even became a teenager. A time where his life was opulent, and his parents were respected and cherished him. His thoughts ran from that to the situation where he now found himself. A KGB agent living in America, not to spy, but he would have to be careful ensure that nothing he said could be construed as treasonous to his homeland. And as few people as possible knew he was KGB, which could get dangerous very quickly. But for the first time, Illya was feeling contented.

The German mechanic was a lovely spitfire. Someone he cared for, that reminded him of nothing related to the simpering woman who raised him. Gaby evoked feelings from him he had never felt before, a caring, a gentleness, and protectiveness that as Solo had said, made him soft. But the women was a fierce creature that more than took care of herself. She had even proved capable in battle, taking care of Solo, without getting a scratch herself. And she was quick thinking, and mechanically skilled. And a better driver than he.

But love, whatever most people called love was empty, and caused only more pain. Women being hit by men who expect too much for too little. Older members of society being neglected and ignored as their ability to produce diminished, and child being born out of unhappy homes neglected and doomed to the same poor behaviours. So whatever he felt for Gaby, it was not the lust or love people talked about.

Illya was looking ahead to the ocean and missed an uneven spot his foot sank into. He fell hard against boards of the docks, his weight echoing loudly even as he heard and felt a pop into his ankle. He lay there dumbly. And only sharp pain greeted him when he tried to move his foot.

Illya shook his head in dismay, and cursed in Russian. Four men stood above him when he raised his head. "Need a hand up there?"

"No, I will be fine." Illya rolled onto knees, and pushed himself up to his feet. His foot was unable to take any of his weight, not only did it spike pain through him, it buckled, twisting against its nature.

"You a Russian boy?" The oldest man asked, a sneer on his face. He had gone mostly bald, but had thick eyebrows that were long enough to nearly touch his full beard.

Illya nodded, trying to keep his face under control. Illya was fervently wishing if he gave himself a minute, he would be able to hobble to an occupied street and flag down a taxi. He'd hurt this ankle before, but never this badly.

The men glanced at each other warily. Another man, dressed in green overalls moved to his side, and a younger boy, flanked to his right. Illya put up his hands. "I don't want any trouble."

"You hurt yourself badly mister, we'll just get you what you deserve." The Americans had bunched up around Illya, and Illya tried to relax. They were not tried to mug him, no one had an obvious weapon.

"Now how long have you been in town." The oldest man asked again. His tone of voice irked Illya, it was a bit accusatory, but Illya supposed some old men just sounded like that.

The man on Illya's left brought Illya's arm over his shoulder, and took his share of Illya's weight. That relief made Illya sigh. "About four days now. Just finding my away around."

"Odd place for a tourist." The older man said again.

Illya agreed to that, and the men helped him across the street into a building. It was decrepit, dusty, and it gave Illya a bad feeling. He looked around.

"Just need to get a taxi driver, I'll be out of your hair." He told the older man, who glared at him. And drew a gun.

Illya's hand flashed out and pulled the man with green jacket in front of him and pushed him at the man with gun. His next move hit the boy on his right in temple, stunning him. Illya managed three steps, and was not yet to the door when the gun fired in front of him, and Illya dodged back hitting the wooden floor of the building hard. His ankle had not held him up for long. He lay stunned, not having the foresight to catch his fall. His nose bled, and his sinuses pounded. The gun fired again, and Illya watched blood spray up from his thigh. They just shot his leg. His arms were roughly brought in front of him and tied with knots only sailors knew. He got another strike out at the fourth man who had stayed back until now, hitting him in the hyoid bone. The strike had been influenced by another man pulling back on him, so the fourth man would live. But he watched as the man stumbled back clutching his throat dramatically. The oldest man pistol whipped him across the face.

"What is this about?" He spat blood out of his mouth, and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, he pulled it straight with a snap, and sensitive facial pain blinded him for a few seconds.

"We don't like your kind here. You're probably some spy, some traitor." The man in the green coat barked at him, and Illya was taken aback. He had been attacked because he was Russian, in America, a land full of immigrants.

"I am not spy." Illya said. And he perfectly understood the irony of his situation. This time a fist flashed and caught him under his ribs. Illya was happy he had not yet had anything to eat. The men continued to beat on him, until Illya lay on the floor trying to catch his breath, and the men complained how much their fists hurt. And it was late in the day. And their wives would be looking for them. So they attached the binding on Illya's wrists to some chain and stood him up in the center of the room dangling him from the ceiling. And handkerchief tasting of another man's sweat tied through his teeth gagging him.

And there Illya remained until nearly dark the next night. His shouting garnered him nothing. This was no worse than KGB training had been, and the last time he had been tied up like this he had broken ribs as well with a floor that had been icy against bare feet. So Illya played chess in his head, and wondered about what Gaby had thought had happened. And Illya wondered how he had been so foolish to be captured by these American's who were nothing. But as Illya reflected that was not right either, at least the older man and the man in the green coat moved like soldiers, but infantry, not anything trained to deal with anyone like him.

So when they returned the next day and began pulling out his fingernails and toe nails, Illya told them nothing that was the truth. And he tried to play it like he thought Solo would tell him too, confessing to a family he didn't have, a job he did not have and a new home.

The boy had returned with the three older men only once. The teenage had thrown up and left when they had started in with pliers. Illya had not seen him again. But Illya did see him take the watch off his wrist and slip it into his pocket. Illya had screamed at that, and tried to kick the boy, but the older men just hit him in the legs with a pipe.

They left him strung up like that for another night. By the next morning, Illya's head lolled on his shoulders. Too much of his blood had stained the floor, and he was so very thirsty. He was willing to kill for a drink. But this too was something he was trained for, and had experienced before. When the men pulled out his gag, they had realised it too when he was barely able to speak, or groan, or yell in response to their treatment.

So after that they did bring him some water and let him drink. And Illya took what was offered, because each time that they left him alone, they fixed up the knots, and had begun tying his legs together as well. And his numb fingers were too dumb to pick at the knots. Four days of his arms constrained above his head made everything very hard. Having them released downwards was a new agony each time.

Eventually the men grew bored of him, until Illya admitted he did not believe in their god, or any god. And they beat him for that as well. Time blurred together. Eventually the men brought in another friend, a policeman who stated he did not know Illya's face from any watch list, and told them to get rid of him before they got caught. Illya was just an alien, and unfriendly outsider that had struck at them, and cursed them.

None of them wanted to be the one to kill him, not even the old man with the gun. But the man whose throat he had tried to crush suggested something he had seen in the war. And so they left Illya with his arm above his head, legs dangling, only his fever to keep him warm, his feet freezing in the Atlantic, and made him work for his air. By that time, Illya had chosen to completely retreat into himself, a quiet little place where his hopeless situation did not have him mentioning anything that could alert the men to fact that they did have a real spy. So Illya stayed almost catatonic, and refused to pull himself up until after then men had left, disgusted that he had not put on a show for them.

Illya said he did not remember much after that.

MFU

 _25 Days Later, New York City_

Illya trailed off, his story had been told mechanically, he was unable to voice the fear he had, and loss and the feeling of betrayal that no one had found him faster. He would have died alone there, nameless, despised, and for no reason. It would have been an honourless end, and perhaps eventually some other passerby may have found his rotten corpse, and perhaps Waverly would eventually realize it was he that swung from the ropes.

But he said nothing of those fears as he recounted his story. He had told it in blunted English, leaving out his dreams of Gaby, and worries over Solo's health. And by the end of it he felt his entire body trembling, and he struggled to focus on where he was now, and not see their four faces, in the worn out warehouse.

Eventually he felt a slap burn across his face. His eyes jerked up to where Gaby stood in front of him, unshed tears burning in her eyes. "Illya, no, not again. You're here. Here with me. Please look at me." She burned with fury. And he shrunk back from it. "No, no, no, Illya I'm sorry." She brush her mouth against his clenched knuckles. "I'm sorry that happened."

Illya struggled to get himself under control, he could not decide whether he wanted to fly apart in rage or cry. Either was unacceptable right now. Both of his partners were too close. If he was to work with them again, if they let him work with them again, he needed to stay together.

Solo stood and faced out the window, a hand over his mouth. "A group of vigilante 'patriots'. And a police officer." Solo said. Anger burned into his voice. "I don't care much for racists." Solo had been a soldier in the war, and had likely liberated those held in German detention camps. From what Illya knew of them, he suspected that Solo's admission was an understatement. And he turned to face Illya who had to look away from Gaby. He was cool, calculating. "You know the face of the cop."

"His name as well. They called him by it." Illya said his voice suddenly calm.

Illya tried to process his partners' reactions. Neither of them appeared to be ashamed of him, or annoyed with his admission that it was just blue collar bigots that had made three weeks of his life a living hell. Neither of them looked like they were wondering how a Russian spy had let four men hold and humiliate him like that. If they felt anything like that they had kept it off their faces. Illya felt small for letting himself be caught like that, immobility or no. He should have been able to kill them all, and crawled away on his belly to the main streets. Solo had to be thinking it himself, he was no fool. And Gaby was probably wondering how safe she would be out with a man like him, weak enough to be caught like that.

"Peril, you're thinking too hard." Solo shook his head at him. "You got dealt a bad hand, it happens. One day I'll tell you how I went from world class art thief to CIA spook. And trust me it went a bit worse than this. You still have us after all, and your job, once we're able to start again."

"Illya, you still have us. And we'll never leave you behind." Gaby said and sat by Illya's hip.

"Thank you." Illya said too softly.

Their acceptance at his condition, and the reason for it was like a balm to his mind. They did not say it was his failure, or push at him what should have been, what he should have done differently. Those doubts that whispered at him started to disappear.

Napoleon gave him a grim smile, winced sitting back on the couch. "I don't know about you, but I could do with some time off. Skiing perhaps?"

Illya noticed a rather British shadow move from behind the closed door to his room.

MFU

* * *

I am so pleased with the response this story has gotten for the last couple chapters. Everyone was been so supportive, thank you! And for the person who gave me the prompt, I'm working something out...

Oh and for anyone confused, I decided to put timeline stamps at the beginning of each section, had some feedback that a couple readers were a little lost with the skipping around. All the chapters have been updated.

So just the epilogue left, and then a one or 2shot, depending on how it develops in the works so far.

So what did you think of the bad guys? Not what you expected? I was kind of inspired from a preview of a movie I saw before Man from UNCLE which showcased the hatred the American public had for Russia at that time period.

Drop me a note if you have time to tell me what you're thinking so far, and the epilogue will be out before weekend's end.


	6. My Life

_39 Days Later, New York City_

Gabby heard her heels click on the tile floor as she made her way down a familiar hall one last time. She hoped anyway. The idea that a hospital was the final destination to most missions was unsavoury. Being paired with two of the best men in the business so far had yielded impressive results and they had both strived to make this world a safer place, but at a serious cost to themselves. But she understood that it could very well be her turn next to fall, and she hoped that she did in fact make it to a hospital. She seen enough death to know how quickly it can happen, and she was grateful her partner were as dedicated to saving each other as they were to completing their missions.

Waverly had taken an odd collection of perfectionist misfits, ostracised, and forced to stay in situations that they did not wished to be in, and he had stolen them away from their uncomfortable chains. Waverly now held those bonds, but he had a different agenda then their former directors. Illya still got quieter in Waverly's presence, more reserved and guarded, while Solo's natural ability to act condescending still escalated. Waverly took them in turn, and was slowly diffusing their reactions. Gaby herself tried to remain more professional than familiar to the man who had stepped in as a guardian, one who had guided her, and trained her in the two years she waited for Nazi's to knock on her door. When instead she had contended with the Cowboy and the Red Peril, Waverly had woven them together that mission. Or perhaps it was better to think they now held each other's chains. Gaby could never imagine stepping into further espionage without the two men she called friends.

So she listened as she made her way, and heard giggling. Two women were talking quietly among themselves, and one walked away and entered a room. Gaby waited in a recession in wall and listened. She called it practice, not eavesdropping as she overheard the young blond girl's conversation.

"All ready to go today. I'm sure the doctor would keep you longer, if you asked." A feminine voice asked, Gaby refused to call it sultry.

"No, I am grateful for help, but-" Came a low tone, thick with a foreign accent.

"Oh, is there something I can help you with now? Are you sure, I wouldn't want you to strain yourself. Here's your shirt." Gaby stiffened. Was Illya dressing in front of that women?

"Ah, thank you, I should be able to manage." Gaby felt half a shade of relief. Other than being on crutches until his cast could come off, Illya had seemed self-sufficient. Which the hospital staff knew, begging the question what that young nurse's aide was doing in his room.

"But, it's no trouble, in fact if you need anything after you're at home. I'll give you my number." She was going to give him her number, perfect. Gaby felt then tension double in her chest. While it seemed like Illya and she had felt something for each other, any spark of desire had disappeared in his eyes, since she had found him barely alive, hanging from that rope.

Illya had made progress of course, he now had stopped flinching at speaking English, or becoming irritated at American speakers. He had even stopped seeming so depressed after his shoulders and hands healed enough for him to do for himself. He had played chess with Solo routinely beating the American, while talking Gaby through the basics of Russian. But he was more somber than he had been on the mission in Rome, and more distant than the mission in Istanbul. Perhaps time away from the hospital would help with that. Gaby was happy to give him all the time he needed.

That was, until she heard his response. "That would be very kind of you, please." And that damn giggle returned.

Gaby pushed herself off the wall and marched into his room, thrusting open the mostly closed door wide with the flat of her palm. And was greeted to the sight of Illya sitting at the side of his bed pulling a dark turtle neck over the plains of his stomach. The nursing aide did not even look up at Gaby, her attention focused elsewhere.

"Done here?" Gaby asked.

"Umm, yes. Just need my crutches." Illya answered, and he offered her a tentative grin.

"Good, I would not want to be late." Gaby answered. And turned away, walking back out in the hall. Her Russian stood up and struggled for a moment to align his crutches. She heard him, rather unstealthily follow her.

"Say thank you to the other staff for me," Illya had stopped, and nodded to the aide who batted her eyes at him.

"Just remember to give me a call." She replied.

Gaby raced ahead, and waited at the elevators. Illya stared at her, his brows furrowed, and one corner of his mouth turned down. She entered the elevator soundlessly, and waited until the doors opened again at the ground floor. She turned and started walking away, slower this time.

The sounds of a foot fall and the tap of the wood sped up until he moved even with her. Gaby felt like she was being childish, but since she did not feel right smacking the Russian yet, she asked him coyly. "Well she certainly seemed to care for you."

Illya nodded agreeing. "All of the staff were very caring." Gaby snorted. "Chop Shop Girl, I was damaged, not brain damaged, what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong." Gaby tried, but then Illya's became more intense, hotter and he looked at her like he did the first time they ever made eye contact, stopped together driving side by side on that road in East Germany.

"No. Try again." Illya was unrelenting.

"So are you going to ask the girl out? She was very interested." Gaby bit through it, and chewed on the corner of her lip.

Pure confusion racked the Russians face. He said something, short that she did not understand.

"What was that?" Gaby asked, as this was not the proud reveal that Solo would have given her, or the defensive response she may have suspected from Illya.

"I said bad word. I had not realized, I think I led her on." Illya's head whipped back towards the closing elevator. "Perhaps I should go back and."

"And nothing, we have places to be, remember." Gaby felt somewhat relieved. Her partner, for being an elite spy was not good at hiding things from her. His surprise at being flirted with was unfeigned. Even if he was not interested in her, he was not looking elsewhere for romantic attachment.

So the pair left the hospital, and got into the car Gaby had waiting for them. It was a large car, room in the back for plenty of storage, or dead bodies as need be, and would comfortably seat all three of them. It also, as Solo had remarked about her last project, would have need a runway if one attached wings.

Solo had been busy with a crew of CIA agents that morning cleaning up most of the mess, but in particular, with Waverly's blessing his agents thought that one target needed particular attention. Gaby parked her car in a spot designated for official vehicles only. And she smiled, because she had a badge in her pocket now to wave if anything came up. They all did. Waverly's unit had official sanction from all Geneva countries to operate with total authority, in cooperation with other agencies as required.

Gaby now shadowed Illya, following him up the stairs, which he took gracefully. Gaby saw him enter the small police station, bypass the desk sergeant with a glare and come up behind an officer that stood facing a billboard.

"Officer Daniels, you are under arrest for willful abetting of kidnap, torture and attempted murder of federal agent." Illya had come up quietly, rather close behind the man. The officer in question froze, dropping his coffee cup to the ground. With that noise, every head in the precinct turned to swivel at towards the unfolding scene. Gaby had noticed the desk sergeant had left his post and was approaching Illya. The desk sergeant was a man she had previously spoken with when hunting for Illya. He looked at the large Russian, and shook his head once in recognition of the descriptions Gaby had disseminated. Gaby raised her badge and waived him back. The man complied looking at the ground.

Daniels turned slowly and his face paled face as he took in Illya. "But I saw you die." And then he turned to run. He went to rush past his fellow officers, presumably out a back door. Solo stepped out from behind a few men where he had been seated and blocked that route, the man turned wide of where Illya still stood watching with contempt.

And Daniels tried to bull rush past what he saw as the easiest exit, through Gaby. Gaby took a step and dipped her shoulder down and planted it squarely in the man's stomach. He did not even realise what had happened in time to defend himself. They fell hard to the floor, but Gaby, dress and all quickly straddled the man and took his gun off his belt, which she handed to Solo who had come up quickly, when it was obvious Daniels had meant to run.

Illya just watched, a satisfied smirk on his face. He had set his crutches discreetly behind him, and it was almost impossible to notice that he was wounded, by the way the clothes he wore discreetly hid his healing injures.

"I'm glad you decided to confess and run in front of your colleagues. It disgraces you, setting you apart from them, which it should." Illya spat. "Your job is to protect the people, not punish those you decide wicked. And trust me, if were up to me, there would be no trial, because this is my job. Punishing the wicked."

Gaby slapped on a pair of cuffs Solo handed her, and stepped away so Solo could bring the man to his feet. The man waivered. "You will be going into the CIA's custody, with all of your friends, for a very long time. Or a very short time, if you're lucky." Solo said with a dark humour. And Solo pushed the man ahead of him out of the police station. None of the other cops said a word in protest, though one of them had left to go upstairs and speak with the police chief.

Illya looked at each of the remaining men in uniform levelly and followed Gaby away, out to where Solo was waiting. And Gaby saw the urchin who had given her Illya's location with his hands in cuffs. "What's going on then?" Gaby asked in confusion.

Illya gritted his teeth. "The youngest of the four." His eyes flashed dangerously, and his finger was tapping on the side of the crutch, the half-grown nail obvious.

"But I swears I had nothing to do with it. And I tolds her, where you was. Saws her leave the station, after asking about yous. Followed her back to the hospital." The boy was looking at Gaby intensely.

"Followed her back to the hospital... Ms. Teller, I do believe that we need to work on your ability to spot a tail." Solo said a bit sardonically. "But what else did you have for me."

The boy nodded enthusiastically at this. "Show him sir, please."

And Gaby saw Illya's world stop when Napoleon brandished the watch at him. "This is the second time I've found this for you." Solo held Illya's crutches as he placed it back on his wrist with reverence.

Gaby looked at the boy, who was shrinking under Illya's returned glare. "Thank you for telling me."

And Solo pushed the boy into the van that seated four other men, three dockworkers, and one former police officer. He latched the back, and the van drove off.

Illya turned to look at Gaby, no less intensely, but the mood was different. Solo looked back and forth at them and waived, "I'll wait in the car."

"Illya." Gaby asked feeling unsure.

"You were very rough with that take down, you could hurt yourself." Illya said with a tone of voice that made it seem to Gaby that he was disapproving, but a small smile played on his lips.

"What does that mean?" Gaby asked waiting to hear a rebuke, but she would not feel guilty for her actions. It had been necessary.

"It means you need lessons, which I will be happy to provide you in about four weeks." He winked at her. "A strong women needs good technique. We'll get our chance to… wrestle"

Gaby squirmed, feeling oddly complemented. And walked up to him. He stared down at her, and before he could back away, she pulled him into a hug. "I'm glad you're here to teach me."

MFU

Well that's it for this one folks, had to make sure everyone got their just desserts, and that Illya and Gaby had a scene to themselves.

Let me know what you thought of that, and know that I am starting next another mission piece. I had originally thought it would be just a twoshot, but now I have another idea rolling to fit in with it. I will have to see as I start writing how long it ends up being.

Thank you everyone who bore with me from the beginning, before I got hopefully most of the embarrassing typos cleaned up.

I appreciate every comment I received for this piece, and my first story. It was a lovely welcome back into writing fanfiction after so many years.

appendix:

Song list for the titles, if anyone cares...

Whispers - Whispering by Alex Clare

Take Care of Business by Nina Simone

One by Metallica

Cry to Me by Solomon Burke

Hey Man Nice Shot - Filter

Under the Bridge - Red Hot Chilli Peppers

My Life - Æther Shanties


End file.
